Cold, Black, Bitter
by threedays
Summary: Set during "Don't Cry," Mary's life flashes in front of Marshall's eyes.


**COLD, BLACK, BITTER**

set during "Don't Cry for Me, Albuquerque"

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><p><em>NOTES: I don't have cable and so far only the Season 4 premiere is up on the website. My way of coping is to watch all my DVDs again. I adore "Don't Cry" and got sucked into another go at writing fic about it. Better late than never? <em>

_These folks ain't mine, and yadda yadda. I don't want money, just a little distraction. Don't sue and do enjoy._

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><p>It's the weirdest thing. Like time travel. He keeps going back to that moment in the office. Not just thinking about it, but going there, for real. He can feel the hot mug in his hands and the sting of his anger and the pain underneath as he deliberately hurts her feelings.<p>

Just a few minutes in the office, but it replays over and over in front of his eyes. Those few minutes the other night when she asked him to pour her a cup. Hot black coffee in a Marshall Service mug has sustained them through more than a few long nights. Threat assessments. Asinine paperwork. Whoever is the closest does the pouring.

He remembers the burn as he took a sip. The burn _before _he took a sip. Her betrayal, her stupid mistake carving like a bullet through his core. Bouncing off every piece of him that still felt, till he stopped aching at the look on her face at his small slight.

Even a small slight, coming from her only friend, hurt. He knew that.

Like a bullet.

He forces himself to tune in.

Mary's incompetent mother is stumbling through a question about Mary's brain. Will she be normal, will there be damage. The doctor looks pained. Marshall goes cold, then hot. He knows the origin of Jinx's question. The question behind the question. _Will she need care? Will she still be able to take care of us? Will she become a burden we have to deal with, a problem like my other daughter?_ He knows he is being harsh, isn't able to stop the thoughts that tumble, bitter like day-old coffee, cold from the pot.

Too soon to tell. Too soon to tell about everything. About the bullet. About his partner's mind, which, he thinks, has never been quite right. Hopefully that will work in her favor.

Nobody says, but everybody knows, that it is too soon to tell whether they will keep her, or whether she will slip away like a leaf in autumn, released, maybe mercifully so, from this screwed-up life of hers. He is having her near-death experience, and her life keeps flashing in front of his eyes.

_Pour me one?_

His hands tremble. He pushes himself off the chairs too hard and nearly stumbles trying to follow the doctor. Focus. There is a case. There is work. This is what they both know. This is what she would expect him to be doing.

He asks about the bullet. Hears the words. _Through and through. _The part of his brain that still clings to reason knows that this is better than having to remove the bullet. The bullet has removed itself. But the part of him that is obsessed with going backward in time a few days and taking back his hurt, replacing it with a damn cup of coffee - that part of him aches.

_There is a hole in her. Through and through._

A _real _hole, right through her gut - not like the invisible one that's run through her heart since she was a child.

So much hurt, outside and in, and he has spent the last several days making that hurt worse. On purpose. Snarky comment after snarky comment, in front of Eleanor, in front of Bobby D, in front of whoever happened to be handy at the time. He didn't care where they were, who heard. He was angry enough to want to make her squirm in front of other people. To want her to be embarrassed. He was so angry he wanted everyone to know it. Angry with her for not keeping a secret, but then he made no secret of his anger. Threw it at her every chance he got.

And she caught it, quietly, set it aside. And kept waiting. Patient. Not pushing back, not getting pissy herself in the face of his anger, the way she ordinarily would. Just waiting him out. Seeing how long it would take for the heat to subside.

It did, eventually. There was a slow cooling off.

Right on down to cold.

He hears words in his ears, so clear it is as if they are still being spoken. _You gonna be all right here? I've got, like, a date … thing. _The last time he saw her. The time he could have made things right. And didn't. The time he could have stayed. And didn't.

The case.

Focus on the work.

He clings to the incorrect notion that finding her shooter will undo her shooting. He stays up all night, works through until dawn, does not allow himself coffee. She will have the very next cup he pours.

Unless she doesn't.


End file.
